


The Blind Psyche

by allollipoppins



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Dark Victor Nikiforov, Dysfunctional Family, Experimental Style, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Katsuki Yuuri, POV First Person, Unhealthy Relationships, Yandere Victor Nikiforov, open to prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 09:36:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15216308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allollipoppins/pseuds/allollipoppins
Summary: “You could pierce me with an arrow and I would register the impact, feel the metal penetrate my skin, each tendril but I would never feel its pain. Nothing could hurt me, save for the way your eyes go through me. I had never known such a feeling before you and oh my darling, it is the sweetest kind of torture.”One story, three perspectives.





	The Blind Psyche

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy everyone? :D  
> I have been on a bit of an unofficial writing hiatus recently, working on and off on projects but not updating or publishing. I've been navigating work and stress for the past month, which kept me from doing anything concrete, so I thought I'd at least try my hand at something new before moving on to new things and completing my wips.  
> I've been wanting to write a Yandere Victor fic for so long but I never got around to doing it, so here we are! It's mostly experimental since it's been a while since I wrote in 1st person and explored dark Victor. I have an idea of how I want the story to proceed, but I remain open to suggestions, anything is welcome if you'd like to expand the universe :) feel free to drop yandere-themed sentence starters or prompts in my ask box & in the comments!

_A finger hovers on the key, red triangle pointing right at its centre. It momentarily hesitates, trembling slightly in the air, then falls heavily pressing on plastic, the click that follows resonating in the room with a small echo not unlike the dim cracking of a joint, like the knuckles on a finger. The reel comes to life, its spins slow and measured as the black band wires up, croaking when it slides into the tape guard and onto the take-up reel._

_The tape starts to play._

 

* * *

 

If I had to confess –

 

But is “confess” truly the best way to define this, when I have done nothing wrong and feel no guilt? When I seek forgiveness at the hands of none, for it must be “none” whom I speak to in this moment, if not myself? I was never one for an audience. And if I do, I would rather have him. His eyes on me, only. And I would beg for his mercy on my knees, for no reason other than having it even when there is no need for it, and knowing I was the only one with this privilege –

 

Yes. If I had to… confess, for lack of a better word, I would say that it started because I was curious, as most things often do.

 

I can’t remember a time when I was prone to such an emotion, or any emotion whatsoever, for all it matters. I knew the mechanics, rudimentary at best, described as much as possible in what little vocabulary any known language can provide. No dialect or second language spoken within my father’s home was ever enough to encapsulate the scope of physical and mental reactions any human could experience – or was meant to if there truly something human in me, even a fraction of it.

I have, and I say it without vanity, been compared to otherworldly creatures in this life, mythical beings born out of the fertile imagination of men who sought explanations for the smallest things, even the kind that already had a rational answer to provide. Anything is good for mortals, as long as it serves their intentions.

Mother has her own word for my… condition. She was the first to have a say in things as they were. Her name, or lack thereof is foreign to me, even when throughout years I have heard it countless times, in tones most informal and in dialects each person my age had come to appropriate for themselves. Mom, mommy, mama, a thousand variations in tunes of astounding similarity. But I could never bring myself to call my primogenitor as such, just as I couldn’t do so with the man responsible for my conception. It carries an undertone I have yet to master.

It is, perhaps, for the best that it should remain this way. For all of my attempts at establishing a connection with Mother had fallen onto her as if I had struck her, delivered a blow to this frail body that nailed her to the ground. She didn’t say anything the first – and last – time I tried to call her by this name, nor comment later on, no gratitude or acknowledgement. I suppose that we were similar in that way, Mother and I, the both of us possessing a name we had no particular attachment to, and yet that we were to answer to as is custom. For all that we could detest it, and we had the right to, we could do nothing about our names and our connection to each other.

She had tried to change me. I have tried to change. Gently at first, the way one handles an animal, then not so much. It unnerved her that I should feel “at ease” with myself where she couldn’t, as though I did not have the right to exist inside my shadow, in my own light, or for lack of it in that of a person of my choice. What little I can praise of her is this determination to go on. A deaf and blind obstinacy that wilfully ignores one’s attempts at isolation, the kind of stubbornness that stings you everywhere, that probes at you with fingers that wrap around you like chains, with eyes and words as sharp as pitchforks.

It should have hurt, but it would take me a long time before learning what pain was made of. Out of the two of us, she was the only prisoner.

Silly that she should never have admitted it to herself, out of pride, out of a not-so secretive sense of self-importance. Freeing herself was but an illusion, no matter how great the distance she created was between us. Between ourselves, Father and I, and her.

Which is why, regardless of any possible circumstance, everything remains as it has always been. We remain in the same place. It is what is is, in spite of all of our best efforts. Intrinsically there. Inescapable, unavoidable by any means.

It must be disheartening to her that I inherited nothing from her. My appearance, my sex, my name… a handful of many things I share with Father. She stopped loving him long ago, and while he s aware of it, he remains just as “besotted” with her as I was told he was, by myself and others alike. He speaks her name with reverence, low so to not be heard by others though I know what goes on between them, and yet it is beyond me still. A language of their own, of which I wouldn’t learn the intricacies until it caught up to me.

Even now words don’t come to me capably. They slide clumsily on my tongue, a flow that seeps into my mouth directly out of thoughts that fade immediately, no sooner are they voiced out loud. Any word seems to me incomprehensible, senseless. But practice makes perfect, until it isn’t practice anymore.

I caught myself connecting to this… humane being, this self, this “me” that had forever vowed to denigrate such nonsensical behaviour from peers that were never my peers. This feeling was mine, properly so, it belonged to me. And it was reciprocal. It is one of these touching mysteries of which only two have the key. These undertones I could never get a grasp on, now have a name. I have been told, for lack of a better word, that they’re most often known as love.

I didn’t know it was possible to experiment such phenomenon, or that they should be truly applicable to people like me. Feeling had been, since I could remember, like water that glides on the surface of a mirror; it leaves traces, the memory of intricate manifestations of one’s state, each trace unique as a fingerprint. I would catalogue some, for future reference. It wasn’t unlike dissecting a frog or a mouse, the procedure analytic, clinical.

But loving him?

Loving him was like being possessed. It was unnatural, defying any law of nature I had grown to follow blindly. And yet he was, ironically enough, the only thing that made sense in this maze of lies I had constructed around myself.

 

No murder ever goes unplanned. The most impulsive of crimes finds its ramifications deep within one’s desires, product of this ever-constant, unconscious thirst for survival and the destruction of the weaker links.

For him?

I would do it a thousand times.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, kudos and bookmarks are always appreciated :)  
> I'm @allollipoppins on tumblr & @AriL10N355 on twitter, hmu!


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